


Drabbling all over Mystrade

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, Clothing Porn, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Massage, Sexual Humor, World Cup 2014, football fan Gregory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are mostly one shots. So far relationship between Mycroft and Greg established and nothing explicit going on. Relationship between Sherlock and John might come up as well but it's mostly about our favourite DI and Mycroft.</p><p>I updated Chapter 6 - Bait, Part III. Somehow not the whole chapter had made it from my computer to AO3. Saw it by pure chance. To those who already read it, I apologize Now that chapter has an end that deserves that name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Brolly Button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon coming home, Mycroft hears Gregory scream. Someone must have broken into the house and was torturing him for information.

Mycroft looked at the swirling drink in his glass. He wanted to look anywhere but at John Watson, who was there and wasn't likely to leave without an explanation. Okay, Mycroft could have lied but he felt that John wouldn't believe him. The whole affair could be considered embarrassing to say the least but maybe John was able to help. He and Gregory were friends. Well, of course they were. Otherwise John wouldn't be here. John was angry and demanded an explanation about what had happened that Greg had taken up residence in Baker Street, annoying Sherlock and in the process depriving John of whatever Sherlock was willing to give when he was not annoyed.  
"I'm waiting, Mycroft. And I am not going anywhere before you tell me." John crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared at the elder Holmes.  
"All right." He turned around, sat down and with a wave of his hand he invited John to take a seat as well. John came closer but kept standing in his Captain Watson stance. Mycroft sighed. This wouldn't be easy.  
"Well, three days ago I left my office an hour earlier than initially planned."

(imagine image fading on the screen, the situation Mycroft remembers is coming into focus instead)

It was a warm and sunny day, and Mycroft was swinging his umbrella happily. He had managed to leave the office an hour early and he knew Gregory would be home. But whatever he had expected to find when he opened the door, it hadn't been the awful scream he heard. 'Oh God, someone had broken into the house and was torturing Gregory for information.' Another scream followed from somewhere. Mycroft pressed the emergency button hidden in the handle of his umbrella and edged further into the house. The button would immediately alarm a team that would be send out right away to come to his rescue, no matter where he - well, actually his umbrella - happened to be. During the last drill the response time had been bad though. Another awful sound, clearly Gregory's voice in distress. Too much for Mycroft to endure any longer. His last self defence training had been some time ago but he could maybe prevent more hurt coming to Gregory until the troops arrived.

He had discovered the kitchen as the source of the noise but when he peeped around the corner he discovered that Gregory looked quite well. He was sporting trainers, a pair of shorts and that silly t shirt his daughter had given him. The shirt had been the result of a school project and was supposed to look like the shirt had been torn apart by a dinosaur. All it did for Mycroft was displaying plenty of Gregory's lovely skin. Very distracting! Right now his neither torn apart by a dinosaur nor tortured partner was dancing around in the kitchen, apparently cleaning and ever so often he screamed on the top of his lungs. Gregory turned around, his brown eyes widening when he caught side of Mycroft. He removed the headphones he wore and Mycroft heard noises that reminded him of a building site. He stared at the headphones.  
"Live Concert of a German group called Rammstein," Gregory shouted.  
"You shouldn't listen to... music...?" Mycroft tried, "with the volume turned up like this."  
Gregory flashed him another smile and Mycroft couldn't help but smile back. 

It probably wouldn't have made much of a difference if he had called off his rescue team at that point but confronted with Gregory in shorts, that shirt and a smile that turned Mycroft's knees into some sort of goo, his brain simply didn't work within normal parameters.  
And suddenly Mycroft was pinned to the ground by two of this bodyguards while two others made a beeline for his partner. Mycroft was on the ground - now well protected, not to mention covered. Since the only other person around was Gregory, clearly he was the enemy.

The team-leader had been a happy man, because the response time had been fifty per cent better than the last time. Why his boss gave him such a dressing down and promised the removal of the whole of his genetic material from this universe, the poor man couldn't quite grasp.  
They had only tackled the other guy to the ground. Well, yes, he did have a black eye, sprained arm and a couple of dozen bruises but all things considered they could have done more damage.

(picture on the screen fading back to Mycroft and John)

"Well," Mycroft said. "That was it. I did apologise but obviously that wasn't enough. After initial treatment in hospital Gregory hadn't wanted to come home with me."  
John shook his head. "I remember after our first meeting Sherlock telling me, you were one of the most dangerous men." Noticing Mycroft's pained look John gave in though. He knew as cold as Mycroft often seemed, he cared deeply for Greg.  
"Well, I talk to him. If only to get him out of the flat again. But you”, John pointed a finger at Mycroft, “you can already start thinking about how to make it up not only to him but to Sherlock and myself too."

Only when John had made it outside the office he allowed himself giving in to a giggling fit.


	2. Mycroft's Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It follows the events of The Brolly Button. As the title suggests, Mycroft turns up with a gift for Sherlock and John.

“You can't be serious.” Sherlock glared alternately at his brother and the offending item in his hand.  
“Oh, I'm quite serious,” Mycroft replied.  
“And … um ...”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft provided.  
“Greg!” Sherlock growled. “He liked it?”   
“He did. Very much actually.”   
Sherlock watched his brother's eyes becoming glassy. He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.   
“Stop that! It's disgusting.” Sherlock rubbed his head furiously, as if his brain had been defiled by deducing what his brother remembered.  
“And weren't you supposed to get something for both of us?” Sherlock snapped.  
Mycroft looked surprised. “Do you really want me to buy one for John?”   
Taking in the murderous look his younger brother gave him, Mycroft nodded. “Thought so. Besides – this is already a gift for you both.” He looked at his watch.  
“I'm sorry, brother dear. I would have loved to chat but gotta dash. I happen to have a date.”  
Before Sherlock could holler another insult in his face, Mycroft had turned around and was half way down the stairs.  
Sherlock looked at that thing he held in his hand like it was about to sport fangs. With a sigh he took it to his bedroom.

John was tired after a long day at work. All he wanted was some food, a shower and go to bed. He dumped the bag with take-out in the kitchen and went to greet Sherlock. Tired as he was, he saw right away that something wasn't right. Sherlock sat in his chair, his dressing gown wrapped so tightly around himself the material was in danger of tearing.  
“What's wrong?”  
“Mycroft was here. He got us a gift. His way of apologizing.”  
“Okay,” John was curious. “What is it?”   
Sherlock huddled further into his dressing gown.  
“What is the matter? Are you hurt or something?” John sat down in his chair and studied Sherlock's face.  
“No.” Sherlock took a deep breath and making up his mind he looked at John.  
“Do you really want to see it?”  
“Of course I do. What is it?”   
Sherlock stood up, and after another deep breath he took off his dressing gown in one swift moment.  
John's eyes went wide and his lower jaw dropped. “Fuck!”  
“I thought so.” Sherlock reached for his dressing gown was stopped immediately by John.  
“No, don't!”  
“You like it?”  
John licked his lips. That thing Sherlock was wearing, actually the only thing he was wearing, hell, it was hot. There was more material in a glove than this thong consisted of. The material barely covered what it was supposed to cover and it was stretched to its limit.   
“Would you mind,” John rasped, “turning around.”   
Sherlock complied. He waited but eventually he looked over one shoulder. With surprise he saw that John had already taken off the shirt he had worn and had began tearing at his jeans.   
Maybe this gift wasn't so bad after all.


	3. Solar Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a Solar Eclipse occurs people go crazy. Understandable that Greg is looking forward to going home to his very much down to earth partner.

DI Gregory Lestrade decided he had to talk to Mycroft that the British government needed to pass a law that prohibited solar eclipses and other natural phenomena. People simply couldn't handle such occurrences. In the past ten hours the officers from NSY had arrested two men and two women who had suddenly committed murder, three people had stood on top of high buildings threatening to jump and another three guys had decided the end of the universe was near and therefore raped two women. With apocalypse almost upon them, they couldn't be prosecuted, could they? However, considering the tiny possibility that doomsday wasn't lurking around the corner, Greg and his team had arrested them.  
Said DI was almost home now, looking forward to a quiet evening with Mycroft. Some of his colleagues considered Mycroft cold hearted but Greg knew that wasn't true. Mycroft simply didn't show his emotions to people he didn't trust, which was about the world-population minus Greg. Knowing Mycroft wouldn't begin to grow fur during a full-moon, starting to sport fangs after sunset or get funny because the moon got in between sun and Earth, Greg opened the door. He toed of his shoes, threw his jacket on the rack and went looking for Mycroft. Greg's hello died on his lips when he met him half way to the kitchen. Mycroft was just blowing his nose and his eyes were swollen from crying. Greg had never seen Mycroft crying. That was something that never ever occurred. Immediately alarmed he rushed over and hugged him, deciding whatever happened that had Mycroft dissolve into tears must be terrible. Sherlock had died and his parents plus the Queen probably - though that would have been in the news already.  
“Oh my God, Myc, what's wrong?”  
The reply was unintelligible for Greg had hugged the man so tightly, Mycroft's face was pressed into the material of Greg's shirt. The muffled sound didn't convince Greg one bit that Mycroft was alright, as he undoubtedly stated. If anything he pulled him even closer, one hand drawing soothing circles on Mycroft's back.  
Mycroft really wanted to tell Gregory, that everything was okay. There was no need for him to be alarmed beyond reason. Nevertheless it was clear that his partner was in full comfort-mode. And maybe it was okay to enjoy it. Having the strong hands around his body, hands that rubbed his back, kneaded his shoulders and soft kisses that peppered his face and neck were really too pleasant to fight. So he surrendered to the touch, allowed Gregory to caress and sooth him. When he began to make humming noises Greg pressed the topic of what was wrong again.  
“Nothing,” Mycroft told him honestly when he was released from the embrace. He blew his nose one more time.  
If anything Gregory's expression softened even more. “Hey, you can talk to me, Myc. No matter what it is, you aren't alone. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”  
“Seriously Gregory...”  
“You're... you're not sick or anything, are you?” Greg almost stumbled over the words, feeling his heart begin to race inside his chest.  
“No!!!” Mycroft was determined to rely that information. “I'm quite alright. Really, Gregory.”  
“And Sherlock is okay too?”  
Mycroft felt a tingle of impatience. If Gregory would stop asking those silly questions he could explain.  
“Sherlock is fine, as far as I am informed. And so is mummy and my dad.. um.. and the Queen.”  
“Ah!” Greg held up a finger when he had an idea. “You broke your umbrella!”  
“Don't be ridiculous!” Mycroft pointed to the stand where his umbrella, looking very much unbroken, was located.  
Before his partner could come up with another theory, Mycroft pulled him towards the kitchen. He stopped at the door, pointing to a bowl that was sitting inconspicuously on the counter.   
“You want the reason for my tears. There it is!”   
Greg crept closer, peering inside the bowl.  
“Onions???”  
“Yes, onions. I wanted to make dinner. It was supposed to be a surprise.”  
“Well, I was surprised.”  
Mycroft's eyebrows were heading for his hairline. Greg couldn't help but smile. He took Mycroft's hand and pulled him inside the kitchen.  
“Come on, Myc. I told you, whatever it is, we can face it together. Let's make dinner.”


	4. Bait - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a serial killer and wants Sherlock to take the case. Lately the detective is slightly particular which case to take. Fortunately Mcroft has a plan.

John entered DI Lestrade's office with the feeble hope if might be cooler in there than in the clinic he worked. Considering the DI didn't look half as sweaty as the rest of the Yarders he had met so far, John was surprised that the temperature was probably even higher in there.   
The DI's secret weapon was a bucket filled with cool water underneath his desk. He had rolled up the legs of his trousers and the water covered his legs half way up his calves. If he hadn't this stupid serial killer at his hands he would have taken his paper work to Mycroft's air-conditioned office, sipping iced tea or coffee while that lumpy grey mass his brain had turned into during hot weather, slowly reshaped itself to its normal state.  
John gladly accepted a glass of cold water with a slices of lemon when Sherlock flounced in, throwing himself gracefully into a chair. The two other occupants of the office exchanges glances, deciding to hate him right away. Sherlock had discarded his usual jacket but otherwise not even a moist patch was visible on his shirt which looked like he had just put it on. Actually Sherlock just had put on this shirt. He had changed in one of the toilet cubicles at the Yard and put his used shirt into an envelope he had brought. It was already addressed to the dry-cleaner who took care of his shirts. He had thrown the envelope at the pile of the Yard's mail right before he had entered the DI's office.  
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink, Lestrade?" The detective growled?   
“If your excellency would be inclined to help himself.” Greg pointed at the decanter with water, ice and slices of lemon that sat on top of the filing cabinet.   
“My brother begins to rub off on you,” Sherlock told the DI but he helped himself before taking his seat again.  
Greg drew in his breath. Right now he hoped that mentioned brother was right and Sherlock would take the case he wanted him to take. Lately the detective had only voiced interest in cases the DI hadn't been willing to have him meddling with. Of course, cases who he hoped Sherlock would take, had immediately received the stamp bored and not worth his attention. Last night Mycroft had laid out a foolproof plan how Sherlock would take the case of murder Greg had on his hands right now. Mycroft hadn't explained much. He had only demanded asking Sherlock to take a look at a different case and the moment he picked up the folder of the case Greg wanted him on to say no.  
“That's never going to work. Sherlock will know right away that I try fooling him.”  
“Not if the timing is right,” Mycroft had told him. He had wanted to know when Sherlock would be at the office. Although he had no idea what the man was up to, Greg had told him and now waited for the events to unfold. Once John and Sherlock had gotten settled he handed over the file with the fake case. The important one was still on his desk in front of him.  
Sherlock had a look at the folder when Greg's phone rang.  
“Lestrade.”  
“It's me, Gregory.”  
“Myc...”  
“No, don't hang up. Just listen to me.” Greg sent an apologetic look at John and Sherlock. Since his feet were still in the bucket with water he couldn't just get up and leave the office.  
“Sherlock and John are here.”  
“I know. Try to forget they are there. Do you remember last night?” Mycroft literally purred into the phone. Greg felt his breath hitch. Oh God! What a question. Of course, he remembered. From a trip to Hawaii Mycroft had brought a bottle of coconut oil that had smelled heavenly. Especially when Greg had treated Mycroft a massage last night.  
“Tonight I'm going to return the favour,” Mycroft murmured. “Imagine my hands on your shoulders first. But the oil will add such a lovely shine to your skin and I will run my hands down your chest and rub your nipples with that oil.”  
Greg produced a strangled noise. By force of habit he mouthed 'No!' when Sherlock casually reached for the folder in front of Greg, and made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. The other was almost throttling the phone.   
“And when I'm done with your chest, I'm going to turn you over, and my hands will be on your thighs.”  
Greg was ready to faint. He hardly paid attention that Sherlock shook his head in disgust and left the office with John in his wake. The door was slammed shut, but even that hardly startled him in his already aroused state.  
“Well,” Mycroft's voice sounded crisp again, like he was ready to discuss the next world war. “He took the folder and left, didn't he?”  
“What?”  
“Gregory, please, do pay attention. The case you wanted my brother to take. Sherlock did steal the file, didn't he?”  
Trying to force a few ounces of blood up into his head to form a merely logical thought, Greg looked around. “Uh, yes, he did.”   
“Good. I see you tonight then. Bye!”  
Before Greg could form a reply, Mycroft had ended the call.   
Greg wasn't sure he was happy with the result. Sherlock had taken the file but had it been really necessary to make a fool out of him? A very aroused fool for that matter. Now he could try to will his erection away until his next visitor arrived.

* * *

“That was utterly disgusting, John!” Sherlock literally shouted. “Why does my brother have to call Lestrade when he is in his office? He almost made him come in his pants while we were there.” Sherlock shuddered.  
John had his own theory but kept his mouth shut. He wasn't certain he approved how Sherlock chose his cases lately. But as he would be called an idiot if he mentioned his opinion, he might as well run along.  
They went inside a 'Pret a Manager' and sat down to study the file Sherlock had nicked over some cold drinks.   
“Too easy,” Sherlock shook his head. “All that's necessary is to dress like one of the victims, go for a run and make the arrest.  
Looking at the photos, John had only one question. “And who's going to dress like one of the victims? I certainly don't fit the profile, and besides, I'm not going for a run in this heat.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “I can do it.”  
John shook his head. “You don't look like a regular runner.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because you're usually chasing after someone when you're running.”  
“So?”  
“Sherlock, a runner runs because he loves to run or because he has to run. When you're running”, John waved his hands around, “it looks different. Come on, I'll show you.”  
Downing their drinks they got up and left. In the little park nearby John found what he had been looking for. He pointed at a shaggy dog that was oblivious of the heat and dashing after a ball his owner had thrown. “There, Sherlock. That's you.”   
Sherlock looked at the dog before fixing his gaze upon John.   
“That's me?” Sherlock's voice as well as his posture revealed how deeply insulted he was.  
“In a manner of speaking,” John explained. He pointed at the dog that scampered again after the ball.  
“That dog runs because the purpose is to get the ball. The dog over there”, he pointed at a mutt that was trotting through the park, “this is how a regular runner looks.”   
Getting past being insulted, Sherlock studied the dog.  
“I can do that. And we have three days until the next kill is due.”  
“All right.” John clapped his hands together. “Than we're going to pay Sports Direct a visit to get your outfit.”

* * *


	5. Bait - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go shopping and Greg is returning the favour for Mycroft turning him on over the phone.

“Try these ones,” John told Sherlock, handing him a pair of yellow running shorts through the curtain. He heard slight rustling of clothing before Sherlock pulled back the curtain.  
John scrunched up his nose. "Those look silly with your pale legs. You need something to have the attention drawn away from your legs."  
“Oh, thank you very much, John.” Sherlock managed to close the curtain with as much drama he usually swirled his coat with.  
The next shorts he tried were tight Nike tech shorts and John very much approved of the way the material clung to Sherlock's bum.  
“Turn around,” he told the detective. Sherlock complied and John swallowed. Neither front nor back left much to his imagination. He felt his blood rush towards his groin.  
“They... look very nice. If those don't draw attention, nothing will.”  
Sherlock was used to wearing cloths that tightly hugged his slim frame. He was about to follow John towards the section where the shirts were kept but the doctor stopped him.  
“No, you stay in there. And you're under no circumstances to open the curtain unless it's me. I don't want a riot in here.”  
Sherlock huffed but complied. John returned with a purple top with a nice V-neck half a minute later. Sherlock put it on and allowed John to give him a look over.  
“That,” John's voice was rough, “looks amazing. But I think it needs some.. um.. adjusting.”  
“Adjusting?” Sherlock studied himself in the mirror. Both the top and the trousers clung to him like a second skin. Suddenly John was inside the cabin. Pinning the detective against the mirror with his body, John grabbed two hand full of curls to pull Sherlock's face down for a kiss. He sucked the detective's tongue into his mouth and when he was sure Sherlock wouldn't pull back, he ran his hands over the thin material.  
Basically Sherlock approved of John wanting him in such a public place but there were a few tiny details why he rather wanted to wait until they got home. Foremost they had to pay for the clothing and he wasn't sure how he felt if the girl at the cashier's desk would find the trousers already had a tale-telling wet patch.  
John's hands were already conjoined with the thin material that covered Sherlock's behind, and it took the detective some wiggling to get out of the embrace without making John feel rejected.  
He placed a kiss to his partner's temple.  
“I think it is safe to take these home. But maybe we should take a second set of both the trousers as well as the shirt. John nodded. They didn't have another shirt in purple but a dark blue one was just as nice.  
They paid and John took Sherlock's hand and dragged him to the curb to flag down a taxi. He wanted to return to Baker Street without further delay.

* * *

It took Greg about an hour to plan his revenge. He didn't really wanted to call his plan 'revenge'. It was more a way of 'returning the favour'. In general he liked the idea that Mycroft had helped to make Sherlock take the file and ultimately the case. Still it had taken Greg almost half an hour and some gory pictures from another murder case to recover from that bit of phone sex. 

He began by sending Mycroft a text.

'Today really sucks. I want a cigarette. GL'

The reply came a minute later.

'No, Gregory. You are doing so well. MH'

Greg sent another text before he left his office.

'I'll try. GL'

He was certain that Mycroft would almost immediately lock into the footage of the camera which had an area of NSY under surveillance that was often used by the Yarders to have a smoke. But instead of having a cigarette, Greg went to the vending machine, inserted money and got himself ice-cream. It was chocolate and vanilla flavoured and had just the right shape. When he got outside he was glad to be alone. He turned his back to the camera while unwrapping the Twister. Gosh, it was difficult to keep a straight face while he anticipated Mycroft's reaction.

Mycroft had been preparing for a meeting when Gregory's texts had come in. He really hoped his partner would refrain from smoking. Both of them were doing all right with their nicotine patches. A minute later three colleagues piled into his office, sitting across from him. They all knew that Mycroft often had his laptop open, observing something or someone while they were having a meeting. Neither one dared to even look at the screen when they got settled.  
Mycroft listened to the first report when he detected movement on the screen. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Gregory exiting the door, presenting him with his back. Inwardly he groaned but his left hand flew over the keyboard, zooming in.  
When his colleague began his report, Mycroft knew he was in trouble. Instead of lighting a cigarette be watched Gregory turn around and closing his lips with a look of utter concentration over the top of a Twister. He sucked the Twister between his lips only for a moment. Mycroft could almost hear a plop of sound the Twister most certainly didn't make when it was released from those lips. With a gulp he watched Gregory beginning to lick the ice-cream with the tip of his tongue.  
"Good Lord!" Mycroft couldn't help the sound that escaped his mouth.  
"Sir?"  
"Nothing, please continue." Mycroft tried really hard to disconnect the part of his brain he needed for this meeting from the images on the screen that set him on fire very thoroughly. Gregory had the balls to give that Twister literally a blow job in front of the camera, knowing Mycroft would watch. A light sheen of sweat already covered the politician's forehead. He had enough sense to press a button to tape the whole thing but neither did he manage to shut out the events that enfolded in front of him nor did he do the most sensible thing and close the laptop.  
The ice-cream melted nicely under Gregory's ministration and that infuriating man even managed to lock those big brown eyes directly through the camera with his own. Mycroft's fountain pen clattered to the tabletop, startling his colleagues, when Greg allowed the last dollop of vanilla ice gather on his lips before licking it off.  
The politician talked on autopilot, knowing his brain would somewhere store the information he received during this meeting. Fortunately his colleagues suffered enough from the current heat not to wonder too much about Mycroft's odd behaviour or his somewhat flushed looking face. Nevertheless, Mycroft decided this day was not destined to be spent at the office. He would go home at the earliest possibility.


	6. Bait - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murderer is still on the loose - time to catch him.
> 
> Bugger! I have no idea how it happened but I had posted only part of the 3rd chapter. Edited it today.

The doctor was adamant. He would not allow Sherlock to go running by himself to lure out the killer. Especially not in the outfit they had bought. John considered Sherlock sexy, even when he was dressed in sweatpants, shabby shirt and a hoody. Allowing him outside the flat in the new acquired outfit was an alarming thought. Most healthy females (and males!) were bound to gape at this living and breathing sex on legs. The night the killer was suppose to strike again John would be there, disguised as a homeless man. John really wanted Greg around too. He knew how to fight, was a police officer and totally fixated on Mycroft (and therefore more or less immune to Sherlock's outfit). All good reasons to have him on board. Also it would mean much less trouble once they had gotten hold of the killer. 

They met in the morning, first looking at the map with the layout of the park before checking out the park themselves. Greg had brought electronic equipment for them to stay in contact. It was all state of the art, provided by Mycroft, but looked like regular mp3 players.  
In the evening when the next murder was supposed to happen, John came to the park first. He was dressed in a despicable pair of jeans and a shirt. Both he swore would be transferred into the trash as soon as the arrest had been made. He also carried a couple of plastic bags with what looked like all his worldly goods. His disguise was good enough to get disgusted looks from passer bys as well as a sandwich from an old lady.

Greg and Sherlock arrived at the same time but approached the park from opposite directions. For once the DI was glad his hair was grey. No need to run around the park. His exercise of choice today was Nordic walking. He wore a light vest over his shirt to hide both his gun and handcuffs. Still he began sweating profusely as soon as he started moving in the oppressive heat. 

Sherlock began running along a path which he thought was most likely for the killer to strike. He came into view for Greg ever so often. Although Sherlock'd rather bite off his tongue than say anything to John, the sooner the arrest was made the better. The heat was affecting both his body and his brain. 

For about forty-five minutes Sherlock loped around the park on a track they all had agreed on. John was close by and so was Lestrade. Nothing happened. Eventually Sherlock spotted a path that led away into the undergrowth and decided to try his luck there. Unfortunately he didn't share his idea with either one of his companions and was out of sight within a minute. 

When Greg came around a corner, Sherlock had disappeared. 'Shit!' Greg muttered, 'I'm getting too old for this.' 

“Sherlock, where are you?” he whispered into the microphone. No answer. Seconds later he could hear John's alarmed voice though.

“What happened?”

“Lost him. He must have either sped up, took a turn that I missed or...” He left the sentence unfinished.

Greg threw away he walking sticks and fell into a trot, trying to gain on the detective. But that only resulted in sweating even more. Ten minutes later Greg still couldn't make out Sherlock. John had given up the pretence of a homeless man and was searching the undergrowth while Greg went to check out a playground. In the distance they heard thunder and dark grey clouds brought the promise of a thunderstorm. Having searched the playground without finding anything, Greg leaned over the fountain for a quick drink. Gulping down several mouthful of water, he was about to turn around when he felt the tip of a knife pressed to his neck.

“Don't turn around and maybe I'll let you live,” a man hissed in his ear. 

Greg swallowed. The man was too close for him to do anything with his gun, and the blade pressed to his neck felt sharp enough to leave a deep cut if he made a wrong move. Close to the carotid artery a cut could be fatal.  
The man ripped off the false mp3 player, threw it to the ground and stepped on it. “Now, let's go for a walk.” 

Greg was guided through a gate at the back of the playground to a small parking area. The only vehicle there was a van. If he entered the van his chance for survival would drop to zero. Still he had no choice. If anything the blade was pressed with even more force to his neck. The tip even broke the skin and drew blood.

Greg swallowed. He had always hoped that he would either get really old and wrinkly before he died or get shot saving somebody else's life. Becoming the victim of a serial killer most certainly wasn't his choice of death. 

When they got to the van his capturer opened the door. Greg saw only a dark shadow descending onto his capturer before he was flung to the ground. The cut at his neck had gotten a little deeper but otherwise he was unharmed. The man who had killed four and had chosen him as his fifth victim, lay motionless in the dirt.

“Gregory!” Still a little dazed, Greg was scooped up by Mycroft and pulled into a tight embrace.  
“I need those,” Greg heard Sherlock's voice, who went fishing for the handcuffs underneath the DI's vest, stoically ignoring his brother's glare.

“Let me see the wound,” John Watson demanded, pushing Mycroft's hand away to get access to Greg's neck. Gritting his teeth, Greg allowed John to check out the wound. The first fat raindrop landed on his forehead. 

“You don't need stitches. Bit of disinfectant and adhesive tape for a couple of days,” John told him.

“Good!” Greg sighed. “Now, could somebody please explain what happened?” With a look directed at Mycroft he added, “And what are you doing here?” 

Another raindrop fell and within seconds it was pouring, soaking them to the skin. 

“Where's that umbrella of yours when it is actually needed?” Sherlock grunted, pushing the wet strands of hair away from his eyes to look at Mycroft.

“I'll explain everything when we're home,” Mycroft told Greg who still waited for an answer why his partner ad shown up. He hugged the detective close, providing some cover from the rain by leaning over him, allowing the rain to pound down on his back.

They all would have loved seeking cover in the van but it was evidence that would be crucial to convict the owner of quadruple murder plus one attempt.

Finally the van was towed away and the arrested man in custody. They could drive to their respective homes at Baker Street and Pall Mall. 

Sherlock sneezed and blew his nose before reaching for the cup of tea John held out to him.  
“That was utter foolishness, Sherlock,” John scolded for the umpteenth time since they had got home.

“Yes, John.” Somehow agreeing with the doctor didn't help. Sherlock decided to try yet another strategy to save the evening.

“Really, it won't happen again. I make it up to .. um .. Greg.”

“Do that. And apologize to Mycroft.”

Sherlock sipped his tea and when the cup was empty he walked over to John. 

“How about we do something about the looming cold and take a shower,” Sherlock rumbled into John's ear. “Together,” he added, lowering his voice even more.

John got up and followed him towards the bathroom like a fish on the string, deciding he might as well forgive Sherlock now. 

 

Greg rested on the sofa in his dressing gown. A beer in his hand and his feet in Mycroft's lap, plus the killer arrested and stowed away, he was a very happy man. 

“Are you going to tell me now what happened? And don't tell me you weren't involved. I did see the bruise at your knuckles.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, his expression a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “I listened to your conversation and when Sherlock had suddenly disappeared I decided to have a look for myself. The moment your radio was destroyed I got a location. When I arrived Sherlock had already discovered the van. It was too dangerous to step in when you were taken hostage. I hid behind the van and Sherlock had climbed on top of it. It was quite easy then to tackle the man to the ground then.”

Greg shook his head. “Sherlock says often enough how stupid the police is. Right now I'm feeling pretty stupid myself. Getting caught by the killer and such. If it hadn't been for you and Sherlock I'd be dead by now.”

“If it hadn't been for Sherlock it would have taken a few more days and you would have caught him yourself. Also without Sherlock disappearing you wouldn't have wandered off quite so carelessly.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.” Greg agreed. He took a sip from his beer before he grinned at Mycroft. “The other day you promised me a massage. Since you haven't gotten around doing it, I'd like to take you up to it now.”

“Only if you promise never to have ice cream again in front of a CCTV,” Mycroft growled before he went up to get the oil.


	7. The Art of Declination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has finally agreed to accompany Greg to a football match. Now the only thing missing is appropriate clothing.

Mycroft was pacing his office. He had little more than another hour but he was no closer to solving his problem than he had been this morning. Making a decision he pushed the button on his desk that would summon up his PA.  
Only seconds later a knock on the door was heard and Anthea stuck her head inside.  
“Sir?”  
Mycroft waved her inside. “I have a bit of a problem. I agreed to go to a football match together with DI Lestrade. He provided this”, he showed her a dark blue polo-shirt that had Arsenal stamped in bold letters at the front, “and I have really no trousers that go with it.”  
“Of course you don't,” Anthea replied softly. “A pair of jeans would be most recommendable. If you want to blend in.”  
Mycroft shrugged. “Gre... DI Lestrade said something about 'hip' whatever that means in regard of clothing or trousers.”  
Antheas's eyes flew open. “Hip?” she repeated. “And you have agreed?”  
Mycroft shrugged, his cheeks turned slightly scarlet. When Gregory had asked him to come to the football match, he had bestowed his best puppy eyes expression upon him. So far Mycroft had been unable to decline any wish Gregory has voiced when that gaze had been directed at him. Even when he was asked to come to the stadium. Watching a live football match ranked in Mycroft's opinion about as high as getting a root canal therapy.  
Anthea left the office to get the impromptu shopping done, wondering if this new pair of jeans that had hit the market just a couple of weeks ago would really be the right choice for her boss.

* * *

Mycroft was on the phone with Gregory when Anthea returned with his new attire almost an hour later.  
“I'm about ready. Just have to change and I'm on my way. I meet you at the stadium. Bye.” Mycroft ended the call and took the bag Anthea handed him.  
“Hip - boot cut, low waist and powder aged wash. Came 119 quid.” Mycroft blinked, deciding he might need to learn another language. Surely on the internet he would find a page where he could learn how to talk jeans.  
“Right. Get the car ready. I need to leave in five minutes.” His assistant nodded and left.

A couple of minutes later Mycroft stared at his image in the mirror. He couldn't go out like this. The waist band of the jeans sat level with his hip bones. He only had to move slightly for the polo to hitch up and expose his belly.   
Anthea knocked and when she was allowed to enter she too decided that Mycroft could under no circumstances leave the building dressed like this. Both the jeans and that shirt looked like they had been spray painted on his body. She'd need double security, better triple, if he wanted to walk the streets of London looking like this.  
But then he wouldn't really walk around like this. The limousine would drop him off right at the stadium and there was DI Lestrade who would watch over him. She tried to hide her grin. The DI would surely keep Mycroft Holmes under very close surveillance in this outfit. 

Mycroft was dropped off at the stadium at the appropriate time and place. Now he had only to wait for Gregory to show up.   
Said DI arrived a couple of minutes later. When he caught sight of Mycroft, his lower jaw dropped.  
In a book he probably would be introduced with the words, 'DI Greg Lestrade, prowling, ready to pounce, his testicles on fire.'  
How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on the football match with Mycroft looking like this?   
Mycroft turned and caught him staring. It didn't take a genius to see quite clearly that Greg's mind was no longer set on the upcoming match or anything else remotely related to football.  
The smile that spread over Mycroft's face was as honest as it could get. He walked to his partner, deliberately stretching to his full height. As expected Gregory's eyes were glued to Mycroft's midriff where the waistband of the shirt had hitched up to expose a small stripe of skin.  
“Hello, Gregory.”  
“Myc,” Greg croaked.   
“Do you want to go inside?”  
“I'm not sure.”  
Mycroft bend down to tie his shoe-laces again. Gregory's breathing told him everything he needed to know.   
He straightened and looked at his partner. “I'm ready to go.” Where to go he left entirely to Gregory's imagination.   
Being a man who was used to making decisions, Greg made up his mind. He had just spotted two sad looking youngster who obviously hadn't managed to get tickets for the match.   
Knowing how to make four people happy with a single action he pulled out the two tickets he had for Mycroft and himself and gave them to the startled boys.  
“Here, have fun!” He turned back to a highly amused looking Mycroft. “And we're going home. Now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a picture of jeans that have such a cut. Picturing them on Mycroft threw my brain into a loop. Had problems concentrating for days.


	8. Peas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Football fan Gregory is watching England play Uruguay. When he comes back he needs Mycroft to comfort him. And there's also Gregory's birthday about to come up. And Mycroft has just the right present for his partner.

Mycroft switched off the TV. He had rather listened than watched England playing Uruguay while Greg had met with a bunch of fellow football fans at one of the various public viewing areas. With the result his partner would either be home within the next hour, in desperate need of comfort or he would be back not only very late but also very drunk. Weighting both options upon their likelihood, Mycroft went to the medical cabinet and put some aspirin onto the kitchen counter before he went upstairs.

He smiled to himself while he undressed. He envisioned Gregory's gritted teeth whenever he was fiddling impatiently with all those buttons he had to open in order to peel Mycroft out of his suit. Taking off his jacket, waistcoat and the button down shirt was a way to unwind for Mycroft, Gregory called it 'taking off the armour' and considered all those buttons unnecessary obstacles.  
All cloths hung carefully, he headed into the bathroom, took a shower and went to bed with a book to wait for Gregory to come home.

One hour later he heard the front door open and listened to Gregory's footsteps. The door was closed quietly – not drunk then – but the footsteps sounded a bit off. Mycroft listened and waited but Gregory didn't come upstairs. His patience lasted all but ten minutes before he threw back the covers and headed downstairs to check on his partner. 

He found him sitting in he kitchen, holding a towel against the side of his head. The size of the towel revealed that it was wrapped around a bag of frozen peas. One foot as propped up on a stood, another towel with a frozen pack sitting on top of his knee. 

“Gregory, what happened?” 

Greg turned around and studied Mycroft's worried expression.  
“It's nothing really. A bunch of kids from Montevideo decided to celebrate their victory in the Crown & Arms. They got into a fight with some very drunk fans of our own and I ended up in the middle while I tried to break up the fight.”

Mycroft's eyed Greg's choice of cooling pack. Frozen peas. Again. Greg knew several recipes with peas but of late Mycroft got very tired of having peas ones or twice a week.  
He preferred his partner unharmed anyhow but Mycroft wished Gregory would choose one of the reusable cooling packs Mycroft had bought at the pharmacy.

Peeling the towel carefully away from Gregory's face Mycroft regarded the injury. A bruise was visible but with a little luck it wouldn't turn into a black eye. The knee also didn't look too bad although there was a slight swelling close to the kneecap.

Pulling up a chair to keep him company Mycroft leaned over and ruffled his partner's silvery hair affectionately.  
“I'm sorry,” he said, not certain whether he meant that the English team had lost the match or that Gregory was injured.

Leaning into the touch, Greg sighed softly. “Yeah, bit of a shame really. I mean our team coming home soon.” His gaze became a bit unfocused. “I wonder what it's like in those huge stadiums during the world cup. I mean, don't you think it'd be amazing to be there? Thousands of fans singing and shouting.” Mycroft felt goosebumps raising on Gregory's arms from the mere thought.  
“It's really something when Arsenal plays here but that..” Gregory shook his head, his expression turned dreamy. 

“I wouldn't know, love.” Mycroft bestowed another kiss to his partner's face. “Come on, let's get you to bed. I don't think any more cooling in required.” 

Greg nodded and allowed Mycroft to help him upstairs.

* * *

The commissioner came into Greg's office the following afternoon. The white haired man tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin that invaded his face.  
“I approved your holiday but I expect a full report when you're back,” he told the surprised DI.  
“What holiday?”  
“Incorrect addressee,” the commissioner answered, leaving his inspector in a somewhat befuddled state. 

A minute later Greg's phone vibrated.

'Try to come home early. M'

'The holiday is your doing then. G'

'Naturally. M'

'It it worth asking you to elaborate. G'

'No. Mx'

* * *

When Greg came home a few hours later he found Mycroft puttering about in the kitchen.  
“Your suitcase is upstairs. I took the liberty of packing.”

Greg went to their bedroom to check what Mycroft had packed. Shirts with short sleeves, sandals, light trousers, shorts, sun lotion. There was also Mycroft's suitcase and the contents looked quite similar. He bounded down the stairs again. 

“Where are we going Mycroft? Spain or something?” 

“Somewhere where you can wear this,” Mycroft said, pressing a folded white shirt in his hands.  
Upon unfolding the shirt Greg's eyes got as big as saucers. It was an official shirt of the English Football team, the name Lestrade was printed onto the back of the shirt. 

“Myc..” he stammered, unable to say anything else.

“Consider it an early birthday present. We're leaving for Brazil tomorrow. On Tuesday we're going to watch the match in Belo Horizontale and afterwards we have another two days to see the beautiful beaches or whatever else you want to enjoy in Rio.”

“You!” Greg answered, totally overwhelmed. Unable to say anything else that could be considered sensible he hugged his partner and buried his face in his neck. 

Mycroft held Gregory close, thrilled beyond believe that he could give the man he loved the ultimate gift. “The stadium's capacity is about 58.000. I can't escape security so we have to stay in the official lounge but it has a balcony to step outside.” Mycroft kept telling him more details about the stadium, about Belo Horizonte and their journey until Gregory finally relaxed against his chest. 

“Actually I gave this to you because I really don't want to have peas for dinner tomorrow,” Mycroft confessed with a smile.

Greg laughed. “I took the peas to the soup kitchen this morning. So it was quite a waste of money.”

“Nothing is wasted on you, Gregory, if it makes you happy.”

They kept standing with their foreheads pressed together for several minutes, wallowing in the fact that they were the happiest men in the world.

The following day they flew to Brazil, not only to watch the final football match of the English team during world cup 2014 but also to enjoy their first shared holiday and celebrate Gregory's birthday a little earlier this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Rupert turning 51 today, I thought this to be an appropriate chapter. I hope he gets treated just as nicely by his family, friends and colleagues.


	9. Sing Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While driving with Mycroft to their holiday destination, Greg passes the time singing. (yeah, I know I'm rubbish at summaries.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found out that I got a herniaed disc in my cervical spine and this bit of fluff was my way of copeing. :-/

Mycroft could hardly believe it. He had a whole week of holiday to look forward to, a week he and Gregory planned on spending in Cornwall. A small hotel near the ocean was all Mycroft ever needed as long as his Gregory was there too. 

Spending time outside in the sunshine was okay, although it meant a thick layer of sunscreen, SPF 50+, for Mycroft. Gregory had assured him, he'd like nothing better than Mycroft's freckles to blossom in abundance but the younger man had been adamant. All neck-nibbling, cajoling and calling him 'his ginger god of freckles' hadn't helped. Mycroft was neither willing to risk a sunburn nor was he interested in 'blossoming'. Even for his beloved partner who, undoubtedly, would be as brown as a nut within a day or two.

Still, each man sported a huge smile once the car was packed and they could start their holiday. All the way to St. Ives it was a six hour drive but they were in no hurry. The idea was to stop for lunch at the coast near Bournemouth, where one of Greg's colleagues had retired to and ran a small restaurant.

Mycroft had treated them a Jaguar XKR convertible that Greg declared to be 'sex on wheels'. His happy face had been priceless when Mycroft had jiggled the car keys in front of his partner's face to show him that he was the designated driver. 

Once they had left the outskirts of London, Greg wanted the top of the convertible lowered – what's the reason for having a convertible if the top stayed closed the whole time anyway? He had pulled over to silence Mycroft's protest with a very convincing and even longer kiss. 

To Mycroft's dismay the wind was now ruffling their hair and although Greg kept declaring he looked adorable with his tousled hair, the younger man kept muttering complaints under his breath. Greg took Mycroft's grumbling with all his good-natured personality. 

Eventually he gave in though and closed the top again. The next miles passed in comfortable silence. Mycroft tried in vain to smooth down his hair. It made Greg smile and he reached over to do some smoothing of his own. Mycroft leaned into the touch, enjoying the sensation, even though it did nothing to restore his hairdo.

After lunch they continued on their way to St. Ives. The landscape was beautiful but eventually Greg got tired. Unwilling to give up the privilege to drive the Jag, he switched on the radio and went looking for a station with little talk and plenty of music. 

Mycroft had been lost in his thoughts when his partner startled him by not only turning up the volume but singing along as well. He really, really loved his Gregory but singing clearly wasn't one of his stronger virtues. Still, his enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in skill.

Shortly after an announcement that the listeners should call, asking for songs they'd like to hear, Greg pulled over, got out and made a phone call. Mycroft only shook his head, laughing at his excited partner, wondering what song he could possibly ask for. Well, he would know soon enough. 

Listening a bit more thoroughly now, Mycroft learned about Emily, who wanted to say hello to her boy-friend by asking for a song they had listened to on their first date. A husband asked for a song for his wife on their anniversary. Songs for birthdays, friends, loved ones – they were all there. The hour had almost come to an end when Mycroft was startled to hear his own name.

'Mycroft, I hope you are listening, because the next song is for you. And I should tell you from Gregory, that every word your are about to hear from the Plain White Ts is true.'

Mycroft had blushed while he had listened to the announcement. Before he could comment, the music started and Gregory was singing along again. 

_1, 2  
1, 2, 3, 4 _

_Give me more lovin' than I've ever had_ _Make it all better when I'm feelin' sad_ _Tell me that I'm special even when I know I'm not_

_Make it feel good when I hurt so bad_ _Barely gettin' mad, I'm so glad I've found you_ _I love bein' around you_

_You make it easy_  
 _It's easy as 1, 2  
 _1, 2, 3, 4__

_There's only 1 thing 2 do  
 _3 words 4 you  
 _I love you___ _I love you_

_There's only 1 way 2 say  
 _Those 3 words and that's what I'll do  
 _I love you___ _I love you_

Mycroft wondered if the thumping of his heart was loud enough for Gregory to hear. He would never have asked for a song played for him on the radio but this was so very perfect that Mycroft's throat constricted and rendered him speechless. 

_Give me more lovin' from the very start  
 _Piece me back together when I fall apart  
 _Tell me things you never even tell your closest friends___

_Make it feel good when I hurt so bad  
 _Best that I've had, I'm so glad I found you  
 _I love bein' around you___

_You make it easy  
 _It's as easy as 1, 2  
 _1, 2, 3, 4___

_There's only 1 thing 2 do  
 _3 words 4 you  
 _I love you  
 _I love you____

The refrain was repeated a few more times before the music faded. 

Greg, who had been singing along the whole time, suddenly felt very self-conscious, especially when for a whole minute Mycroft didn't say anything. Having his eyes glued to the street, he only saw out of the corners of his eyes when Mycroft whipped his face with the back of one hand.

“Gregory,” Mycroft's voice was hoarse, “please, pull over. There!” Mycroft pointed to a parking bay that was just big enough for their car.

Greg did and when he had stopped Mycroft immediately got out of the car. The older man frowned. Surely his partner couldn't be that upset. Before he could finish that string of thought, Mycroft literally tore open the door on the driver's side.

“Get out.” Mycroft's voice was still rough with emotions.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Greg didn't know what to expect when he left the car. What he hadn't expected though was being pulled by the hand to the front of the car and pushed onto the bonnet.

“You are the most wonderful, gorgeous, amazing and beautiful man,” Mycroft told him. He emphasised every single adjective by kissing Gregory, each kiss lasting a bit longer than the one before. Nudging Gregory's nose with his own he smiled at him.

“This was the most perfect gift I've ever received. Unless...”

Eyes, the colour of chocolate, went wide. “Unless what?”

“Unless I count your heart you gave me.”

“Mycroft...” Greg didn't know how to answer.

"I seriously consider having you right her on the bonnet," Mycroft growled before nipping Greg's neck in a rather predatory fashion.

Greg moaned and dragged his partner down for another thorough kiss and they only broke apart when the siren of a police car gave a short wail.

“Oi,” one of the police constables in the car shouted. “That place if for emergency parking only.” He pointed at the sign.

“It was an emergency,” Mycroft told the man. Greg held his breath. Most cops didn't care for this kind of joke but the man actually grinned.

“Well, I can see that but maybe you can take your emergency to another location now.”

Both Greg and Mycroft nodded and the police care drove away. 

They got into the car, heading for St. Ives as fast as the speed limit allowed for they felt other 'emergencies' coming up, that asked to be taken care off rather urgently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Fanfiction I discovered a wonderful Teenage Mystrade Story called "Give me A Lable (I'll make Confetti)" by the very talented IBegToDreamAndDiffer. In that story I "discovered" the song mentioned here and in my mind it belongs to Greg ever since.


	10. Shake it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summer party is going to take place at NSY. Does it make sense to invite Sherlock and Mycroft?

“You can't be serious, John.” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. What was it with these Holmeses that meant he simply couldn't win. No matter what he decided. 

John Watson nodded. “I am serious. Sherlock is offended. You should have at least asked him.”

Greg threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “He would have said no anyway. What's the point of asking.”

“So he could decline your offer,” John answered truthfully.

“Okay, I'm going to ask him.” He began walking away but turned to face John again. “You do know this is stupid.”

John gave him his best 'Duh!' look.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in the midst of what looked like a metric ton of files when Greg walked into his office. Sherlock looked so very much at home in the DI's office, Greg had almost knocked before entering. The consulting detective remembered just in time that he was still sulking, so he shot out of the seat, turned up his nose and left the office, offering neither hello nor insult.  
Greg considered shooting him in the back but there were really too many witnesses around for even Mycroft to bail him out if he did. And being the nice man he was, he ran after Sherlock.

He reached him right in front of the lift.

“Look, Sherlock, I thought you wouldn't be interested in the first place so I didn't ask. But if it means so much to you,” Greg plastered his best smile on his face, “I would like to invite you to the Yard's summer party. Plenty of music and dancing, not to mention eating and drinking. Doesn't it sound like fun?”

Sherlock gave him his “oh you people with your puny little brains”-look. “No, it doesn't. I'd rather meet my brother for tea.” 

The door of the lift closed into Greg's face. He was almost certain Sherlock would have slammed the door if that had been possible.

'Fucking diva!'

* * *

Would you like to come to the Yard’s summer party? GL

I presume the party involves drinking and dancing. MH

Ghastly, I know. But would you like to come anyway? GL

No. MH

Thought so. GL

Then why did you ask? MH

Greg closed his eyes before fishing a couple of aspirin from the top drawer in his desk.

* * *

Two weeks later. John, who had come to the party, and Greg were having a ball. The sun was out, the Yard's backyard nicely decorated, the food fantastic and everybody was in a good mood.  
“I'm glad they didn't come,” John said, while trying to decide if there was still enough room on his plate for another sausage.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, juggling an equally fully laden plate. “They probably would have loomed in the background, making snarky comments.

“Boring,” John announced.

“The noise... and those people,” Greg spat.

They exchanged looks which clearly reflected that they both missed their respective party pooper.

* * *

If there had been a ticking clock in the kitchen of 221 b, it would have been the only audible sound. Both Sherlock and Mycroft sat across each other, staring silently into their teacups.  
They had enjoyed an hour of bickering and killed another with deductions but somehow none of that was much fun today.

“They are probably already on their way to getting loaded.” Mycroft eventually broke the silence.

“John will be sick half the night and will have a major headache tomorrow,” Sherlock agreed.

“Gregory will tell me his hair hurts.”

“That's impossible. Hair can't hurt.”

“His does!” Mycroft glared at Sherlock, daring him to contradict his Gregory's statement. “Still, they never learn.”

“Never.”

“Think we should go and check before it's too late?”

“Oh God, Yes!”

Both were out of their seats, tea forgotten on the table when they rushed out.

* * *

'We got to move it move it, we got to move it move it' The music, blaring from the loud speakers made both Holmes brothers cringe. They had discovered their significant others on the dance floor. Together with a whole bunch of other Yarders and guests they were waving their arms, wiggling their hips and were looking quite ridiculous. Not to mention cute. 

The brothers had melted into the background, each holding a drink to blend in as they watched every move John and Gregory made. 

Both Mycroft and Sherlock had been trained in ballroom dancing and considered the sort of music that was played right now downright dreadful. But if anyone would have cared to look closely both brother's bottoms were twitching to the rhythm of the music ever so slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I postet this story some time ago at Fanfiction as "Copgirl. More of my stories - and those are in fact beta-ed - are pubished there.


End file.
